


GSW

by shadowolfhunter



Series: Losing My Conviction [2]
Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowolfhunter/pseuds/shadowolfhunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Bite. The Marshals come under attack and Chief Deputy Art Mullen learns a thing or two. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	GSW

**Author's Note:**

  * For [menel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/gifts).



Art shifts backwards, and tries to crawl past Tim to change positions.

“I wouldn’t do that, boss.” The sniper is crouched in the same rock solid position he’s been occupying since they realised that they’ve been duped. Since Raylan took a bullet through the thigh.

 _Almost since Raylan took a bullet to the thigh_. Art glances down behind them.

Raylan slumps against the wall, his Glock still in his hand, Tim’s hasty makeshift dressing, part of Tim’s shirt and Tim’s belt tightly wrapped around his thigh. Raylan’s eyes are glassy and he is panting like a hound dog. Art doesn’t need to ask if he’s in pain.

They need the med kit from the car.

Art tries that maneuver again. Tim shoots him a glance. “Boss.” It’s not a question or an order, just a simple statement of fact.

“We need the med kit.”

“I know.” He resumes his stare out the window. “I just need…” Tim pulls the trigger. They all hear it, above the sound of Tim’s rifle, the solid sounding smack of a bullet entering a skull.

Tim moves then, handing the rifle to Art, pulls his Glock.

Art’s forte is not the long gun, but he’s good enough to cover Tim, while his youngest deputy makes the dangerous run to the car. Bullets snap and crack and bury themselves in the car, in the cabin, but Tim is good and he’s fast.

He dives back through the door, staying low, kicking it shut. Art takes a second from his position to see that Tim’s grabbed the med kit and the bottle of water that he had.

There’s more ammunition in the car, but it’s in the trunk, even more exposed than the driver’s side which Tim just risked his life to invade.

Instead of handing the med kit to Art, Tim turns to Raylan. “Ray…” Raylan’s eyes track to Tim’s and something passes between them that is so fleeting Art barely picks it up.

He’s still behind Tim’s rifle, he’s keeping an eye out for their assailants, and a weather eye on his deputies.

Tim has moved next to Raylan, and is helping him lie down. The sniper’s arms gently wrap around the cowboy’s body, and ease him away from the wall. Art watches as Raylan’s head droops, and he rests his forehead against Tim’s shoulder. A look crosses the sniper’s face, and for a second Tim’s eyes close and he holds Raylan there.  
There’s something tender and beautiful about it, and it almost causes Art to tear up. If they weren’t in this damn-for-shit situation, he would have a second to ponder the intensity of that moment. But there’s incoming fire again from outside and Tim moves to take his rifle back, and Art joins him in returning fire.

There’s a lull in the gunfire, and Art finds himself tending Raylan’s wound while Tim resumes the mantle of motionless sniper.

Art uses his knife to slice through Raylan’s jeans, spreading the material wide enough so that he can get to the hole in Raylan’s leg. Art’s no medic, but he knows that by some miracle, the bullet has missed the femoral artery. But it’s bad, just by looking at the damage, Art is pretty sure that the bullet has at the very least nicked the bone.

Raylan is in a lot of pain. This isn’t like his previous wound, that tore through meat and muscle and hurt a little, by comparison this is agony. Art carefully dresses the entrance and exit wounds, and finds something to put beneath Raylan’s thigh, elevating the leg a little.

Tim shrugs out of his jacket, and Art folds it, slipping it gently under Raylan’s head. It’s hot, it’s the middle of July and even the nights are warm, but Raylan’s shivering like it’s mid-winter, Art strips his Marshal’s windbreaker off and covers Raylan. It’s not much, but the look of gratitude that Raylan gives him nearly makes Art tear up again.

But it’s the look that Raylan gives Tim that sets Art thinking.

Raylan’s been off since he came back from suspension. Art’s been kicking around in his mind where it all went wrong, he had no choice but to suspend Raylan for his behaviour, but leaving the man alone with his thoughts after all that happened just might have been a mistake.

Raylan Givens is as high maintenance as one of Kentucky’s finicky, million-dollar thoroughbreds. Art’s known that as long as he’s known the country boy with a dozen chips on his shoulder, and an internal anger that blazes fiercer than a thousand suns.

It’s not as though Raylan was alone for the month, Art and most of the rest of the office had trooped down there to the battered old house to see him, several times each. And Raylan had been perfectly polite, and the perfect Southern gentleman with each and every one of them. And utterly evasive.

Leaving him surrounded by the graves of his family, and Art finally realizes the full horror of the headstone with Raylan’s name on it, was probably a mistake.

Now Art realizes the look he has been seeing in Raylan’s eyes for the almost six weeks he’s been back on the job. Promotion, congratulations, adulation from other marshals for bringing in Drew Thompson… none of that appears to matter. It’s defeat that Art can see in Raylan’s eyes, and that’s never been there before.

It’s a look that Art realizes that he was seeing in Tim’s eyes too. Post-Colton Rhodes. But post-snakebite, Tim’s found a new cause, someone to rescue and Tim handles his issues by helping others.

None of this helps their current situation. Unknown number of assailants, low on ammo, Raylan heading into shock, and no signal on the phones down in the dip. Up on the ridge above the cabin, different story. Art knows that someone has to get up there and get a call through. Out there alone, and under fire.

Raylan can’t go. Art is probably too old and too slow. That leaves Tim.

Shit.

The fading light helps them, but it also helps their enemies, and Art is about to make an ask of his youngest deputy that could get him killed.

Art really isn’t comfortable with that.

Tim’s rock-steady stance behind the rifle belies his astonishing awareness of what is going on around him.

“I have to get to the top of that ridge.” He says, so matter of fact-ly, that Art is torn between telling him not to be a smartass, and trying to go himself. 

Art hesitates, and Tim reads him perfectly. “I have to, Raylan needs help.” The calmness in his voice betrayed by the nervous flash of fear that Tim barely suppresses, and Art decides he’s not going to call him on it. Whatever is truly between Raylan and Tim is close and personal. If it gets Raylan through whatever shit is messing with his mind, Art discovers that he really doesn’t care about it might be.

But they all have to live long enough for any of this to matter.

He takes the rifle from Tim, and eases into place again. Carefully notes the gentle hand that Tim drops on Raylan’s brow, how he smoothes the cowboy’s hair back. The gesture is kindness in itself. Raylan’s hurting real bad, and Tim takes a second to be what Art truly knows him to be, one of life’s St. Bernards, digging victims out of the snow of despond in which they find themselves.

Naturally he covers this kind and caring soul in a mantle of laid-back, cocky wit, but it’s there. Who would have thought the office smartass would have turned out to be so brave, loyal and compassionate?

Movement in the shadows beyond their useless car catches Art’s eye, and when he turns back, Tim’s gone. It’s almost too dark to see Raylan lying on the floor, but Art knows that his man hasn’t moved. It’s the stillness that’s bothering Art, Raylan’s condition is obviously worsening and there’s nothing that Art can do about it.

As he crouches there watching for movement outside, it occurs to Art that something smells off. These guys could have picked them off, especially after they took Raylan down, but they haven’t.

Just as he’s thinking that the assailants must have got Tim, he picks up the pounding of feet, then Tim’s voice, “BOSS!” and he knows it’s bad.

“Tim?”

The sniper appears in the doorway. “We’ve been had.” He says, as he moves to check on his partner. “Those two tips, just to draw us off.”

Art has a sick feeling in his gut. “Who?”

“They hit Nelson and Pete coming out of Big Sandy with Archer. Nelson’s okay, banged up some, but Pete’s dead and Archer’s gone.” Tim’s voice is shaking, “bus is on its way, but Raylan’s real bad.” Tim lifts Raylan into his arms, and slides in behind him, gathering the shivering injured man close against his body.

Raylan says nothing, just curls against Tim, Art gets to his feet and cautiously pulls the cabin door open. Silence greets him. The shooters have gone, leaving them alone with a dead car and an injured man. Art can’t even begin to think about Pete Caldwell and his wife and children now, or Nelson Dunlop, he has Raylan to take care of and the bigger picture will have to wait.

He gets the blanket from the trunk, and brings it back to his boys. Raylan’s passed out now, slumped against Tim, his fingers curled loosely in the front of Tim’s dark green shirt. Tim just holds him carefully, and Art cannot decide if he wants to ask a question here or not. He rather thinks not. At this stage, anyway. If Tim can help Raylan, and help himself, Art is all for it.

He tucks the blanket around his man. There’s a fixed look on Tim’s face, worry and something else. But still Art says nothing, he’s just trying to process it all. The big picture. Raylan and Nelson down, and Pete… He wipes a hand over his face. Caldwell was young, thirty-six, wife and three children under ten.

Raylan’s eyes are closed, under his tan he’s pale, _it’s just a bullet to the thigh_ , Art tries to tell himself that his most troublesome deputy will be fine. He thinks of Nelson, he has no idea how bad his condition is, they’re a small office. They all know each other, with one dead, and two down…

He’s drowning. He doesn’t want to hold on, he wants to let go. In the distance he can hear the sound of the ambulance and the Staties, and knows he has to pull himself together, put this all on hold until he can get back to the office and get a handle on everything that’s gone down.

[][][][][][][][]

It’s very late by the time that Art can finally visit his two injured deputies. Vasquez is with him. In all honesty, Art can’t imagine the hell why. It’s not as though there is likely to be any information that Vasquez doesn’t already know. He’s not exactly a friend of Raylan’s and Nelson barely knows him to nod to in the bull pen.

They’re a small office. This has hit them all very hard. The younger of the two secretaries has been crying. All day. Discreetly. Art asks her if she wants to go home, the girl straightens up, wipes a hand under her eye and says no. He knows that Pete used to bring her coffee sometimes, and Nelson would give her a donut from his almost daily box, and Raylan used to flirt with her when he was after information, and she’s very young, just nineteen.

The next time he sees her, Fiona, the older secretary and married with children, has had to go home to see to her family, there’s still work to be done and Art is in the middle of a pile of paperwork and phone calls. Lynn stands in his doorway, a folder in her hand, she’s organized it all so it just needs his signature, and she’s arranged for food to be delivered, and called her mother that she will be late. It’s not a request, and Art just takes it because he can’t think of any argument to make that doesn’t sound patronizing or foolish.

Now he’s walking down the hospital corridor with Vasquez by his side. The update he has is that Nelson is roughed up, crack on the head, which is why they are keeping him for observation, bruised and cracked ribs, a twisted knee, cuts and bruises all over his body. 

And Raylan is in a bad way. They operated on his leg as soon as they got him in. Dug bone fragments and material out of the wound, flushed it, but the damage has been done, the wound is infected, and Raylan’s on a pretty heavy course of painkillers, anti-inflammatories and antibiotics via IV.

Whatever’s been eating at the cowboy for the last nearly seven weeks is coming to a head. Art can feel it.

They arrive at the room, and Art opens the door. Nelson is sitting up in bed, he looks a mess, but his eyes are clear and he’s clearly been trying to persuade Rachel that he’s good to go. Rachel looks tired and a little snappish, as though she’s been listening to this particular grind a little too long. Which Art suspects she has.

They’re okay. Sort of. Art turns his attention to the other bed.

Tim’s with Raylan. Sitting in the hard plastic chair even though someone’s left a cot for him to use. Raylan’s hand is clasped around Tim’s, Art looks at their long fingers, carefully entwined and the question pokes at the back of his mind again. He doesn’t ask it. There’s a pained look on Tim’s face that goes much deeper than the discomfort of cheap, hard plastic stacking chairs. It’s a kind of bewildered, sad, pained look.

“He begged me to stay. He didn’t want to die alone.” Tim’s tone is dry, spare, devoid of emotion. The look in his eyes has sucked in all the emotion.

Raylan moves a little, Tim’s free hand comes up and gently squeezes Raylan’s arm. The cowboy settles again, something like a smile crosses his features, and the question leaves Art’s head.

That slight smile answers the question. Or enough of the question that Art really doesn’t want to ask anymore.

Art leaves them alone and returns to Nelson, Vasquez is asking questions, which Art takes a second to be annoyed at. It isn’t as though he doesn’t have all this information from other sources. There’s a state-wide manhunt out for Archer.

But then Art can’t help smiling a little too. The relief after the pain of telling Pete Caldwell’s family that their husband and father wouldn’t be coming home again. Nelson would recover, and so would Raylan. Just maybe whatever Tim and Raylan had would help Raylan turn the corner and get back to where he was before suspension and whatever it was that turned Raylan’s head.

[][][][][][][][]

Tim is very tired, but he’s not leaving Raylan. The cowboy is still feverish, but he’s quiet at last, the rambling monologue has died down.

It hurt Tim to hear his friend’s distress. What scared him the most was it being like having the key to the whole of Raylan Givens. The mystery laid bare. The sick distressed ramblings with so much of Raylan so close to the surface.

If he could have walked away, he might have, but then Raylan opened his eyes and looked straight at Tim. And Tim knew. Knew that Raylan knew he was there, knew who he was talking to, and Tim just couldn’t.

Tim looks across, the cot is pretty basic, but the mattress looks like it might be stuffed with cloud, and Tim is just so damn tired. He gently peels his hand away from Raylan’s. The cowboy shifts, and frowns, Tim lifts the chair out of the way, and pulls the cot into position next to the bed. His boots are off and hitting the floor, and he’s up on the cot and reaching out to take Raylan’s hand again before the cowboy can even protest.

Raylan smiles again.

It hurts like hell, and his head feels stuffed, but Tim’s there and Tim cares, so it feels good to be alive.


End file.
